


Klámstrákur (Porn boy)

by klankgazelle



Category: Hatari (Band), Hatari - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klankgazelle/pseuds/klankgazelle
Summary: Do I need to prove that I'm dying?///CWs are in the tags. Do not read if these topics trigger you.





	Klámstrákur (Porn boy)

**Author's Note:**

> To reiterate: CWs are in the tags. Do not read if these topics trigger you.
> 
> Here's my take on how I interpret Klámstrákur in relation to Ógleði (yes, I believe Klámstrákur and Ógleði belong together as a pair and are two sides of the same coin) mixed with my own experience with alcoholic non-functional adults and mental health issues. Enjoy, I guess?

“It just feels like I’m dying, like there is a noose around my neck that’s getting tighter every single day.”  
  
“Have you been experiencing a lot of stress lately?”  
  
“No more stress than usual.”  
  
And for the umpteenth time, I get sent home with pills that make me even more depressed than I already am. They don’t help, neither the doctors nor the pills. It would be more helpful to just let me suffer in my own self-hatred than to prescribe me pills that make me want to hurt myself physically, which in turn makes me hate myself even more. It’s not worth it, so I just chuck them. What’s the point, anyway?  
  
It's not like my identity is relevant enough for people to care. For myself to care. Hell, I’d say my identity and all sense of being went down the drain a long time ago. The drugs, the alcohol, the sex, it has made forget who I really am. Better yet, because what I used to be wasn’t what I was. I was living a lie and that lie is what made me like this. I’d rather have no identity at all than living a lie. Once I burned all bridges and smashed my past self like a fragile vase, it seemed like I was finally happy, until it wasn’t. Until I went overboard and everything went rotten. I went rotten. I had no self left, only loathing. I wanted to feel again and started seeking the comfort of strangers.

Only then I feel something. It seems that at night, I become a different person. As soon as the sun has set and the streets are filled with drunk tourists, partygoers and people secretly looking for company, I seem different. I dance, I strip, I seduce. Of that nervous wreck in the daytime is nothing left. Suddenly, I feel sensual, sexy. I embrace my body as it is with all its flaws and I feel beautiful. The night does something to me that the day never managed to.  
  
I do my hair, I put on my fanciest clothes, I’m happy with my mirror image. I look beautiful, yet there is something off. Among folks covered in awful home-job tattoos and scantily clad women whimpering for attention, I’m out of place. An outcast among outcasts, if you will. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell. I look put-together like I have my life in order. I stand out in this shady part of town, but in reality, on the inside, I fit right in. At nights like these, I seek comfort. I sell an image, just as I sell my body. I seduce men and women equally, just to feel loved, if only for a couple of minutes. It’s a sad reality, but I crave validation, I live off it. I crave so much validation that I’m into anything, as long as whoever’s fucking me is happy. I’ll let myself be completely degraded by them, just got get some form of praise. It’s not praise, really. It’s verbal abuse. But their narcissistic smile, the satisfaction they get from degrading the lowest form of human possible is enough to get me through the night. I need it, I crave it. But only at night.  
  
As soon as the sun rises and I’m faced by the reality and the consequences of my actions, I feel ashamed. Not just ashamed, but more than that. A sense of shame so bad I can barely function. It makes me shiver and shake and I puke all of the alcohol of the previous day out on the bathroom floor. And the idiot that I am, I start drinking again. I need something to drown out the thoughts haunting me, telling me I’d been a fucking idiot, that I’m disgusting. They feel like a hand around my neck, slowly squeezing all the air out of my lungs while I beg them to stop. But they don’t stop, they never do. They stop when they want to stop. And lately, they rarely ever do and it’s affecting me to the point I’m afraid to go out during the day. The piercing gazes of people, looking at me with contempt, disgusted at the acts I performed on a stranger the night before. They don’t know, of course, they don’t, they weren’t there, but it feels like they can just tell by the way I carry myself that I am nothing but a prude drowning in shame and self-hatred. Through all that anxiety, I forget how to function like an adult. I’d rather lock myself up than go out.  
  
On the rare occasion I do go out to run some errands, I always manage to mess it up. I can’t handle it. I get lost, forget to bring a bag, can’t read my own handwriting on the crumpled grocery list. The dime-a-dozen, fabricated pop music echoes in my anxiety-ridden mind, the overwhelmingness of it all clouds my thinking. And suddenly, everything comes at me all at once. I panic. But I have to get dinner.  
  
Pasta sounds like a good option. Easy and cheap, just like me. You can’t really go wrong with pasta, I thought, but somehow I still manage to get overwhelmed. Why are there so many different kinds of everything? Spaghetti, macaroni, farfalle, penne, what happened to plain, old-fashioned, all-encompassing pasta? How am I to know which of these infinite kinds of pasta with fancy Italian names is the best? They must all taste the same, right? What’s the difference? Why are there so many brands? But I have to choose something, I can feel the old lady walking past judging me. “Why is this man taking so long to just get himself some pasta?” I can practically hear her thoughts. She must think I’m crazy. I can feel her gaze burning in my back. Who takes that long to choose some pasta? Everyone somehow makes their choice in seemingly a matter of seconds and I’ve been standing here for what feels like an hour and I’m still not quite sure what the difference is between the spaghetti in the blue box and the yellow bag.  
  
And when I get what feels like the thousandth dirty look from a stranger, I decide it’s not worth it and I walk to the alcohol aisle and buy myself four bottles of the cheapest vodka I can find. Alcohol has calories too, right?  
  
Alcohol is dinner, but a very bad dinner, if not the worst. It gets rid of the anxiety, but only temporarily and alcohol-induced anxiety is only to be gotten rid of with more alcohol. It’s a never-ending vicious circle to the point I can’t recognize myself anymore. Some days, I lock myself in and cover the mirror with a blanket because I can’t stand my reflection staring back at me with bags under his eyes, an aura of hopelessness around him, but still judging me for my poor life choices. If not even my own mirror image can stand to look at me, how must others look at me? They must think I’m scum in its lowest form. Hell, even I think I’m scum. I’m a pathetic, promiscuous slut.

“Why am I such a self-pitying bastard? I brought this upon myself,” I mumble while opening yet another bottle to drink all hope for a decent future down my gullet. “So stop fucking whining and get the fuck over yourself!” I take a shot. The bitter liquid slithers down my throat, pools into my stomach and does its work to let me feel good for a moment. I know that I shouldn’t be chasing after the temporary feeling of relief, but I do it anyway. I realize it’s nothing but an attempt at escapism, a feeble effort at not having to face the reality of what my life has become, of what I have become. Frankly, the time I’ve spent killing brain cells hasn’t been worth it. But I know I can’t change it. I need the alcohol to drown out the thoughts haunting me and bring back the happy ones. I have few of them, but it’s the closest I’ll come to ever feeling happiness. And when I’m drunk to the point I’m throwing up and the happy thoughts have turned bad again, I’m filled with regret.

 _I could grab another bottle, but it isn’t worth it._ On the rare occasion I do have that epiphany, I want to get better. If I don’t, I black out. But I always return to my old ways because I know I won’t be able to drown out the bad thoughts anyway. So instead, I just lie there, submerged in drunken self-hatred and misery, waiting for the night to come.  
  
When it comes and with that, the countless inevitable sexual encounters, the strangers pulling me by my hair, whispering in my ear that I am filthy and that I should be ashamed, I forget my pathetic self. At that moment, I’m their porn boy for them to use however they like for whatever weird fetish they have. Absolutely revolting, really, if you think about it. And they are right. I should be ashamed. Actually, I am ashamed. In fact, I’m drowning in shame, but only when the sun has risen. Until then, I’m just a porn boy. Disgusting, sexy, horny, almost clever, master of the art of seduction. I crave it. I crave their praise and their disgust equally. I love it when they hit me, at least I feel something. Maybe one day, they’ll hit the anxiety out of me.  
  
And by a single tug on my hair I’m pulled from my thoughts. I feel a warm breath on my ear. “You disgust me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work in no way is intended to hint at any of the private lives of any of the band members -- it's mostly my own childhood memories rewritten to a first-person narrative, with some element of fiction sprinkled in to fit *my interpretation* of Klámstrákur and Ógleði. 
> 
> Also, mandatory "English is not my native language, so please correct any mistakes and/or awkward-sounding lines" disclaimer.


End file.
